


oh you know (don't you know?)

by Aria_Masterson1153



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Auston is a cocky fuckboi, M/M, Mitch is the unfortunate soul that's in love with him, Pining, Unrequited Love, but???? maybe not?? so unrequited???
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-28
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-07-18 03:22:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16109738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_Masterson1153/pseuds/Aria_Masterson1153
Summary: Under the lights is where Austonbelongs,reinforced by the shimmering brilliance that solidifies his notoriety, and nourishes his pride.





	oh you know (don't you know?)

Under the lights is where Auston embodies his influence.

It’s beneath the harsh fluorescence of Scotiabank Arena, where he sets for a faceoff; tracking his vivid reflection in his opponent’s visor. On the ice he’s a radiant orb of calculated ferocity and unrestrained skill, deadly to those who dare challenge his distinction.

It’s beneath the forgiving dimness of another nameless club; amongst the shadows that excavate a permanent home within the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones. He is cognizant of this, because knowledge is Auston’s power, and his intelligence welcomes the resulting prestige.

Under the lights is where Auston _belongs_ , reinforced by the shimmering brilliance that solidifies his notoriety and nourishes his pride.

And it’s not as easy as interpreting that he becomes a different person under the different mediums of light; no, that would be far too simple a deduction. He still embodies everything that makes him _Auston_ , it’s simply the matter of what is magnified under the focal point in each facet of his light. Consistently present is his same intensity, reflected off of the unyielding smooth surface of the ice, or in the dulled light of the club. Nightlife brings a considerably softer focus, more submissive than the tumultuous chaos of an NHL game.

There’s still a conquest present, still a means to an end for his effort, but in the nightclub the path isn’t as clear as the vector bridging his net to his opponent’s. Here, the route to his objective is not as clearly marked, impaired with multiple obstructions and routes.

However, like hockey, he still has his options:

 

  1. The tall blonde surrounded by friends; a one man rush to the net at the expense of stubborn defenders looking to break up the play.



 

  1. The breakaway to his left as he spots a small group of girls disbanding to use the washroom.



 

  1. And there, just to his side, is the misplayed puck by the tendy, and the subsequently unguarded net.



 

It’s Mitch, waving to Auston across a mass of grinding bodies as he over-exaggeratedly flails to the chest-thumping beat. Mitch is his open net, waiting for Auston’s quick, imperfect shot. He’s Auston’s easy goal, unchecked at the front of the net. With Mitch, Auston meets no resistance when he scores, no matter the circumstance, or the night. Mitch is always waiting for him in the wings, ready for that quick nod, or sly wink.

Mitch is Auston’s easy option. Though truthfully, the statement isn’t quite fair; Mitch is Auston’s _safe_ option. Because in addition to being one of his best friends, Mitch is a really good fucking lay. Practically at Auston’s beck and call, Mitch nearly equates to Auston’s own position in the light, and is someone who genuinely _cares_ about him. And sometimes, it’s just too tantalizing of a prospect for Auston to ignore.

So, when he sees Mitch split from the crowd towards the washrooms hidden in the back of the club, Auston follows. He’s feeling an empty netter tonight. He spots Mitch drying his hands in one of the unisex washrooms.

“Hey,” Auston begins confidently, leaning into Mitch’s space.

Mitch’s head jerks up, his eyes beaming an earnest warmth, intermingling with the fuzzy glow that seems to emanate around him. “Hi,” Mitch replies, his eyes bright with a quiet elation at being sheltered under the security of Auston’s light.

They’re a good pair. Auston’s light is intensely bright, nearly blinding, with edges that can _hurt_. Where Auston is callous, Mitch is soft, eclipsed by a hazy bath of sunshine that warms Auston’s cheeks like a breezy autumn morning back in Scottsdale. Mitch substantiates all the best parts of home, and Auston really doesn’t want to even begin to dissect that thought.

Still, they’d be good together. That is, if Auston wasn’t the absolute extreme of the unswaying goodness that seems to emerge from Mitch’s every pore.

Because Auston has never let his light blind him-- he can readily detect the way Mitch’s eyes continually linger, and the way he vies for Auston’s attention at the detriment of others. He’d be a fool to so blatantly abuse his power of knowledge. And, let it be stated plainly: Auston Matthews is no fool. He scouts for weaknesses, in both his enemies and friends alike, because it’s the only way to maintain his prime location under the spotlight.

“Come home with me,” Auston states in a clear voice, his intentions unmistakable.

Mitch’s form tenses at his words, and then he laughs with an unnatural ease that exemplifies his very evident apprehension. “What? No.”

“No?” Auston artificially injects a whisper of shock into his voice, though internally he’s not surprised at Mitch’s choice of words.

“No,” Mitch confirms, his voice shaky as he wrings his hands out against the sink. “I-just, I’m busy tonight.”

“But I’m here Mitch, c’mon,” Auston presses patiently, his voice pure silk as it washes over Mitch in the brassy lighting of the dingy washroom.

“Yeah, you’re here, but only for tonight,” and there’s a bitterness in his tone that cracks across Auston’s chest with the stinging force of a barbed whip.

“Do you not… you don’t want me anymore?” Auston questions, with a troublesome streak of hurt lacing his words, just barely sneaking through the clutches of his light.

Realistically he should be relieved, that Mitch’s made the decision for the both of them. Still, it hurts all the same.

“Fuck,” Mitch mutters, scrubbing a rough hand down his jaw. Auston’s eyes can’t help but track its path down the column of skin he’s explored with meticulous precision. “Look, this-just. It’s not fair to me, okay? I can’t keep fucking waiting for something between us that’s never gonna happen.”

Mitch glances back up at him momentarily before dropping his eyes, but it’s all Auston needs. He watches on as the vulnerability manifests-- an appropriate cohort to the hesitation in Mitch’s body which contradicts his stuttered words.

Auston seizes the weakness with the same ruthlessness as a hungry lion would with a sick gazelle. He despises himself for it, but it’s an instinctual reaction, and one that can’t be coerced or bought. Fuck, Auston wishes he were strong enough for the both of them. But he’s weak, selfish. And Mitch, for better or worse, is in love with him. Those are absolute truths, no matter how much his conflicting mind wishes otherwise.

Auston softens his light, slouching into a more unassuming stance. “Mitchy, it’s me, it’s only me,” he exhales gently, twisting and manipulating his light into a mellow, demure shimmer.

His statement softly corrals Mitch’s eyes back up to his; a helpless moth drawn to the light in spite of its most strenuous efforts.

Despite himself, Auston’s cheeks stretch into a small, authentic grin at his reaction. Mitch’s eyes lower in response, like they always seem to do these days. Because Auston’s smile is a well-planned trap, forged by skilled hands to reflect his surrounding light in all of the most flattering ways. Widening his smirk, he recognizes the stirrings of Mitch’s own reciprocating smile, timid and unsure.

“Aus?” It’s a question, Auston’s sure of it, though he finds that he doesn’t have Mitch’s answer. Even if he did, he’s not sure he would _want_ to answer.

So, Auston does what he has to, his own trick to prevent Mitch from ruining it all; he kisses the words right off Mitch’s alcohol-lined lips. Auston’s hands, gentle yet sturdy, weave their way around Mitch’s sharp cheekbones and behind his ears, his fingertips curling softly around the fine hairs at the back of his neck.

Mitch, despite his annoyed huff, responds with vigor, pushing himself off of the wall that Auston is plastering him to. The press of his lean body is so complimentary against Auston’s well-muscled frame that it’s nearly unfair. And Auston may have been able to kiss the words away from Mitch’s wicked tongue, but that doesn’t mean the damning thoughts in his own head cease. If anything, they chorus into a deafening crescendo, forcefully reminding him of how incredible Mitch feels against him.

Mitch’s hands grip onto his shirt, an anchor in response to the suddenly wavering ground beneath them. He sighs softly onto Auston’s plush lips, opening beautifully when Auston noses closer still, wordlessly tilting Mitch’s chin up to enhance the sweet slide of their lips into something more intimate, something that definitely doesn’t belong within the confines of a club washroom. The kiss is theirs, a private moment that should be shared on top of Auston’s sheets; that _will_ be shared on top of Auston’s sheets.

One of his hands move into Mitch’s hair of its own volition, gently cradling the back of Mitch’s head within his large hand. It feels important. He’s not sure why, but it feels important. His hunger for knowledge demands an explanation, but he realizes that there is none. The persistent tugging in his stomach emphasizes the significance of the two of them, together. It’s _right_ , and it’s as it should be.

Auston leans back into Mitch, feeling his body relax into the wiry yet undeniable strength in Mitch’s frame, fusing into something warm, something _good_. He very nearly loses himself completely, feeling his light extinguish in the face of Mitch’s steady, overwhelming pressure. Unthinkingly protecting the last shreds of his essence, he pulls away, panting quietly as he glances at Mitch.

The silence remains, the air charged with a crackling static as Auston attempts to regain control over his identity; his light. It’s no surprise that he finds himself within Mitch’s eyes-- the vibrant blue that refracts his light in an unparalleled exhibition of brilliance and shine.

“Come home with me?” Auston’s repeated statement has somehow transformed into a question, his voice unusually rough. His light fails to smooth over the crackled vines weaving through his windpipe in the way it typically does.

“Aus,” Mitch sighs, his eyes flittering away from Auston’s influence, only to return with a rampant longing that is nearly palpable.

“Baby please, I want you so much,” he whispers in an uncharacteristic display of yearning, the words already out of his mouth before his light can even react.

He knows what effect his words will have on Mitch, and the way he jerks at the note of desperation in Auston’s tone is telling. “This is the last time,” Mitch harshly pants out, yet his grip on Auston’s shirt gorgeously juxtaposes his sharp words, he’s gentle in his strokes over Auston’s flexed bicep.

“I know,” are the words his mouth forms over, completely independent of his mind. It’s a notable selection in the script of mindless repetition their actions seem to produce, one that comes naturally and without prompt.

Are they both deeply seated within their delusions? Of course. But there’s the hope for Mitch that pushes Auston through his actions. The hope that Mitch won’t realize how fucked up Auston is for putting him through this time and time again. It’s misplaced—his hope, but it’s genuine, nearly scarily so.

And for Auston? He clutches at the hope that the guilt doesn’t eat him alive in the meantime, and that it continues to be smothered in between the air-tight seal of their bodies.

“This is so fucked up,” Mitch whispers to himself before leaning up into Auston’s awaiting lips.

Auston’s body covers his to the point of obscurity, and he likes it. Likes the way Mitch was made to be masked, _protected_ by Auston's wide frame. It’s not the first time he’s thought it, and it certainly won’t be the last. The fact that if someone were to stumble into the washroom, they wouldn’t see the way Mitch looks debauched under Auston’s skillful hands.

They _fit_. And he may be ruining Mitch, but fuck if he isn’t alone in this. There’s no way that Mitch doesn’t know. Know that what he’s doing to Auston is something that his light can’t continue to fight against.

Mitch weaves a hand around his neck and pulls him in closer, molding their bodies to the point where Auston feels smothered in the proximity. It’s addicting, this lack of control, at Mitch’s complete mercy. There’s a strange fullness that replaces the slowly vacating position of his light, and Auston can’t will himself to do anything about it between the dizzyingly way Mitch re-molds Auston with his own light.

Mitch traces his tongue with practiced ease, and he gets Auston just _right_. His breath catches on a serrated inhale to meet Mitch’s breathy laugh, eradicating any of the remaining thoughts in Auston’s mental abyss.

And for a moment, just a moment, Auston feels their light intermingling in a peculiar collision, thawing his surrendering body all the way down to his imperceptibly-revived nerves.

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  Hope you enjoyed whatever this is pls <3  
>   
> Want to talk about writing, hockey, or the way I want to brain myself every time I see Auston's dumb-ass trying to act in the Scotiabank Arena commercials? :)) Hit me up, I'm on [Tumblr!!](https://fluorinetungsten.tumblr.com/) <3333  
> 


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